


Secrets of a Silent Sea

by breatheforeverypart



Series: To the Victor Goes the Trauma [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Death of family, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Snow is a jerk, Victors as family, aftermath of the Hunger Games, pre-74th hunger games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24824347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breatheforeverypart/pseuds/breatheforeverypart
Summary: Finnick is accosted by Johanna Mason as he returns home from a forced trip to the Capitol.  Her entire family has been murdered because she refused to comply with President Snow's orders to prostitute herself to Capitol residents.  With nothing to tie her to District 7, Johanna finds herself searching for answers in District 4.
Relationships: Annie Cresta & Mags & Finnick Odair, Johanna Mason/Finnick Odair
Series: To the Victor Goes the Trauma [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776307
Kudos: 25





	Secrets of a Silent Sea

***

Finnick jerked his arm away from Constantine’s curled nails. What was this man’s obsession with waxing? Arms did not need to be hairless. His head throbbed. Why? Ah. The combination of Posca and blow to the temple was to blame, Finnick reasoned. His mouth puckered from the sour toxic wine and vomit. Moments from the previous night’s activities forced their way into his consciousness and he suppressed a full-body shudder at the memories. 

He was not one to shame a person for sexual preferences. That being said, President Snow’s acquaintances often resorted to assault and battery sex that favored asphyxiation. His stomach contracted as memories of the third or fifth client swam to the surface of his mind. Perhaps he sustained a concussion, alcohol didn’t usually leave his recollections this full of holes. 

“Finn?” Hela held his chin in her hands, gently moving his head from side to side. “How did you get these horrid marks?” She asked, her voice tinny and grating. 

“Oh, you know.” He laughed dismissively. “Posca and stairs aren’t the best pairing.” As far as lies were concerned, this was not his best effort. 

The woman whose skin was colored a truly alarming shade of pink nodded sympathetically. Her name escaped Finnick, although she had certainly patched him up on at least one other occasion. The heavily modified woman aggressively dabbed ointment at the bruises dotting his ribs. 

Inhaling sharply Finnick tried to channel his concentration. “Honestly Hela, I’m fine.” He just needed to survive being put back together for appearances, then he could return to District 4. “What time is my train?” 

She squinted at what he was sure were finger-shaped marks ringing his neck. Constantine unscrewed the lid to a cream and handed the container to the lead stylist. “About an hour.” Constantine’s baritone commanded attention. 

Even with her innumerable surgeries and body modifications Finnick calculated Hela’s age to be somewhere north of 45. His stylist was not stupid, she had to know what Snow was forcing the youngest Victor in the Hunger Games to do. The world’s oldest profession. Finnick thought it a cunning and efficient way of punishing survivors. 

Snow always wins. The Capitol always wins. The Victors? They continued to lose. Who had he lost? His mother. His brother. His family dead and buried at sea before he finally understood the rules to his life after the Hunger Games. Now he sacrificed his body and mind to keep Mags and Annie alive. He would do anything to keep them breathing and out of the Capitol’s grasp. 

“You know who’s not fine?” Slipping into his Capitol-accented drawl, Finnick tightened his influence around the room. Spilling one of the secrets should be enough to draw the focus away from his broken body. 

Constantine polished his nails and murmured his shock and own speculation at Finnick’s gossip. Kindly Hela dropped the subject of his injuries and feigned interest in who was fucking whom. 

Instead of meaningless words, Hela gingerly scooped a pea-green colored gel from yet another pot and began painting the necklace of bruises at his throat. 

In return Finnick offered her a real smile, not the ones he plastered to his tanned face as Capitol citizens raped him. Hela smoothed his hair, an intimate act that brought an ache for his mother. Finnick carefully scheduled times to think about his losses. He only allowed himself the opportunity on the anniversaries of their deaths, and only in District 4. Alone. “Thank you.” He murmured, leaving words unsaid, but hopefully understood. 

After all, the damage they could not hide under make-up and cream rotted him from the inside out. Finnick only hoped that one day the toxic infection contained within him would bring down the man responsible for crafting the muttation he was today. The secrets he collected could tear down Snow’s carefully crafted kingdom, but he did not know how best to use them. Every decision was a strategy, every choice could kill you. The Hunger Gamer never ended. 

***

Finnick pulled the messenger bag across his muscled chest. If anything, he’d accidentally toned his body since the end of his games. Swimming had become the antidote for forgetting how to breath, how to sleep, how to live. He spent hours in the ocean working through every stroke his father had taught him as a boy. 

Nodding to an Avox, he leapt from the train. He picked his way around the fence formed of driftwood and slid down a dune of sand towards District 4’s Victors Village. It was as good a home as any, because of who resided there. 

The wind carried the scent of salt and fish. Home. Pebbles dug into the bottoms of his feet as he walked along the familiar path. 

The gate to the Village was open and Finnick frowned. His hand opened and closed around an invisible trident, preparing for battle. 

Instead two hands shoved him, hard. He stumbled back several steps, disappointed to be caught unawares. 

A blur of a girl, all fire and rage came at him again. She screamed, her face contorted in a unique, but familiar agony. 

Finnick caught one of her wrists, but struggled to maintain his grip. She twisted her body away from his, catching him in the groin with a kick. 

He doubled over, yanking her to the ground. “Who the hell are you?” Finnick wheezed, his already sore ribs screaming in protest at the exertion.  
“You didn’t tell me.” Each word dripped with venom and disdain. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She growled, her hand fisting his shirt, nails scraping along the bruised ribs. 

Finnick pushed the slight, but feral woman. As she staggered he pulled her by the wrist and wrestled her into a kind of bear hold. He didn’t give a shit who she was. He was done being touched by strangers. 

Tightening an arm around her neck, Finnick used his free hand to pin her arms against her abdomen. “One more chance.” Her leather boots dug into the soft sand. “Who are you?” 

“Your worst nightmare.” The girl snarled. 

A cross between a laugh and a snort escaped his mouth. “Listen here, little girl.” He purred. Finnick hated the way the Capital had hijacked his speech along with his agency. 

“Fuck off!” She thrust the top of her head towards his chin, attempting to ram him. Her voice was high-pitched and angry. Her short dark hair brushed his face. Perhaps they were acquainted. Recognition burst in his brain, her name danced on the tip of his tongue. The cheeky tribute, he had watched her well-executed bloodbath from the mentors room.

Smiling Finnick released her. “Aha. Miss Mason.” Johanna Mason. District 7. She had won the games last year. Smart girl, she’d play everyone by pretending to be weak. Blight had been pleasantly surprised by her win. 

Finnick’s stomach turned at the memory of his own tributes’ deaths. The boy had crawled on all fours through the meadow, his intestines dragging in the grass until another tribute mercifully slit his throat. The girl had not fared much better, dying from the dozen tracker jacker that had swarmed and stung her as she hunted for food . 

The young Victor before him trembled despite the warm dry breeze that ruffled her torn blouse. 

“What can I do for you?” Finnick frowned, taking a moment to assess her appearance. She was dirty, her clothes rumbled and her hands smeared with blood. 

Her boots flicked sand as she moved towards him. Johanna opened her coat to reveal a beautiful axe hanging from a belt at her waist. “You can explain to me why the fuck my entire family was MURDERED in their beds.” Spit landed on Finnick’s face, but he ignored the bait. He smirked at her tantrum, considering her impulsivity. 

Mags wasn’t going to be happy that he brought home another stray. Usually he nursed dogs or turtles back to health, this project would prove to be more difficult than most. “I’m guessing you didn’t behave.” Finnick answered, he walked past her, towards a pale blue house. 

“Behave.” Johanna laughed humorlessly. “Behaving would have kept Aspen alive? My parents? Oak? My brother wasn’t a threat. He was six.” She wiped her cheeks, seemingly furious at her own tears. “If I had FUCKED WHOEVER SNOW WANTED- “She screamed, her hands tearing at her own scalp. 

Finnick slapped his palm over her mouth. “Enough.” It wasn’t delicate, but he recognized the dangerous combination of pain and desperation. Annie often lost herself in flashbacks. She clawed at her ears, screamed for hours and refused to eat or drink. 

She narrowed her eyes at him, considering biting. “You think I give a shit who hears me? I’ve lost everything.” Her voice cracked, her anger abating leaving a wisp of Victor to be held up by Finnick. 

He pulled her close, feigning flirtation to align his mouth with her ear. “You think I haven’t lost anyone little girl? You don’t know anything yet. Now get inside before you get both of us arrested.” 

To his astonishment Johanna allowed herself to be carried the remaining distance to Finnick’s cottage by the sea. Her anger leeched from her bones, exhaustion settling in her limbs like a toddler after a tantrum. 

***

Johanna rubbed her puffy face as she shuffled into the common room the following morning. An old woman poked at weak embers in a hearth made of stone. 

She’d woken in a panic, certain that she was back in that suite. Her hands covered in warm blood, the corpse heavy on her naked chest. 

The old woman mumbled something unintelligible, her crooked fingers combed over drift wood, as if trying to select the right piece to coax the fire back to life. 

“Let me.” Johanna croaked, her voice raw from the last few days. She reminded her of her own grandmother, long dead and buried in a cheap pine coffin back home. No. Not home, her home was gone. Her family burned and charred to chunks that no feral dog would deign to eat. There were no bodies to bury. No reason to stay. She’d taken to the woods, hitched rides through districts on transports until her arrival at the station yesterday. 

Her fingers moved of their own volition, deftly resuscitating the fire. Slowly Johanna added thin planks, feeling the flames devour the wood with soft pops. 

The old woman patted her shoulder appreciatively before using Johanna’s thin body as leverage to stand. She padded away in hand-knit socks leaving Johanna alone with the very element responsible for the loss of all those she loved. 

“Morning Mags.” Finnick kissed the old woman’s temple and walked towards Johanna with a woven basket on his hip. 

“Mason.” He acknowledged, his lip curled in a teasing smile. 

“What?” She snapped, backing away from the hearth and his company. 

Mags carefully walked towards them, each arthritic hand gripping the handles to a mug of steaming liquid.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have.” Finnick offered one to Johanna, who accepted it warily. Extracting the other from the woman’s hand, he eased her into a rocking chair near the now roaring fire. “Lemongrass.” He explained, letting the aromatic tea bath his face before slurping the liquid. 

Johanna set the mug on the floor and crossed her arms. “Why are you doing this?” She asked Finnick, ashamed at her stomach’s loud protestations for breakfast. 

Mags tapped his arm, moving her hands in a series of signs. 

Finnick nodded at the old woman, ignoring Johanna. “Yeah. She didn’t sleep last night. We’ll take it slow today. Maybe I can get her to swim before lunch.” 

The old woman smiled and patted his cheek before bending at the waist to rifle through the basket of fresh fish. 

Johanna couldn’t suppress a gag at the unfamiliar smell. Who the hell were these people? Wasn’t this the Victor who had dozens of lovers all over the Capitol? 

“Breakfast?” Finnick asked. Mags had a ceramic plate of green-tinged rolls on her lap. She nodded at Johanna, pointing a knobby finger at the bread. 

By the time she finished her third roll at Mags insistence, the old woman had conversed with Finnick again in that odd hand-signal language and disappeared into the bowels of the cottage. 

“So.” Finnick swallowed half a roll in one gulp. “Welcome to the rest of the Hunger Games.” 

Johanna glared at him. “I won.” She said stupidly. 

“No one wins.” Finnick corrected through a mouthful of bread. After he’d won his games, he remembered Haymitch pinning him against a wall in the President’s mansion. He slurred and reeked of sweat and vomit, but had tried to warn him of what was to come. The laughable drunk from District 12 knew what horrors waited for him after the victory tour. “We are lessons to Panem.” 

Johanna considered his words as she tore bits of roll and rolled the salty crumbs between her fingers before popping them into her mouth. “What’s the lesson? You don’t have a choice even if you slaughter your peers?” 

“That.” He agreed lightly as if the whole focus of the Hunger Games was unimportant. “And don’t say no to Snow. Or…” The words evaporated on his tongue, Finnick’s mind submerged in a tidal wave of recollections. 

“Or you die.” Johanna filled in confidently. 

“No.” Finnick’s head snapped up, his spine suddenly straight. “Then anyone and everyone you have ever care about dies.” 

“Everyone I love is dead. I’m alone.” She said bitterly, her blood beginning to boil again. 

“He will find ways to hurt you Jo.” Finnick explained patiently. “All of this, it all leads to control. He needs to control us, to control the Districts. Or his world shatters.” 

“He might as well kill me then.” She dunked a roll in the tea, watching the crumbs sink to the bottom of the mug. “I don’t give a shit anymore. He can’t hurt me.” 

“Well, he can hurt me.” Finnick retorted. “Mags and Annie. Look, I need you to understand that they are my family now.” 

“He killed yours?” Johanna whispered, how many years had she believed the propaganda? That Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s sweetheart had fucked his way through dozens of men and women? A question occurred to her. “Why does it matter that I know who you care about here?” 

A curt nod confirmed the truth. “Mom and brother ‘drowned’.” He made quotations with his index and middle fingers around the cause of death. “Right after I bolted from my first date with a Capitol official and his wife.” 

He shook his head and forced his shoulders away from his ears, cracking a half dozen vertebrae. “It matters because as a Victor, your actions reflect on all of us. We’re your family now.” 

Johanna’s face paled as she quipped. “Ew. That chick with the filed teeth is family?” Finnick remained quiet, waiting for her to digest her new reality as a Victor. “That explains it.” She said softly. “I gutted the monster Snow set me up with.” 

Finnick quirked an eyebrow at her, amused. “There’s a story there.” 

“Not now.” Johanna found herself relaxing in Finnick’s company despite the conversation revolving around prostitution and murder. 

“To the Victors goes the trauma.” Finnick lifted his mug in a mock-toast. 

“Here, here.” Johanna answered glumly. The ceramic vessels clinked and Johanna took a long slurp. “Yuck. Where’s the coffee?” 

“Nowhere.” He laughed. “You didn’t bring any to share, lumberjack?” 

“That’s low, coming from a man who eats green bread.” She poked at his leg with a grimy toe.

He pouted at the streak of dirt Johanna’s foot left on his calf. “That’s seaweed and you liked it all right, judging from the 6 rolls you inhaled.” 

“You calling me fat Odair?” She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. It was indeed a relief to be in the company of someone who understood her apocalypse of a life in the slightest. 

Finnick dumped the fresh fish in a simmering copper pot of broth. “What’re you gonna do about it Mason?” He taunted. 

His tone reminded her of her brother and sister, bickering on their way home from school. Her heart contracted painfully as her life in District 7 flashed before her eyes. “Well, I’m going to teach you how to make a damn fire.” 

Finnick studied her for a long moment. “Alright. It’s a start.” He offered his hand, a lifeline found in the most unlikely of places. Johanna took the chance in the form of a handshake, beginning a new life in the cottage of traumatized Victors of District 4


End file.
